More Sunset Boulevard
by not for granted
Summary: An AU where Beryl Grace and Tristan McLean met, faked a relationship, and proceeded to have a destructive, abusive, trainwreck romance. Ultimately two people (mortals) try to find love again (after being touched by gods). As written for the rarepairingproject on tumblr.
1. The First Meeting

**It's been a bit, but I'm still writing.**

 **Wanted to assure anyone who is following me that I'm not planning on abandoning any of my stories. Just made some commitments, including this story as found on** ** _rarepairingsproject_** **on tumblr. I'm posting it here in chapters for anyone who wants to read it, and as a way to tide over anyone waiting for "Queen's Servant" or "Lost Heroes", even "Original Sin" to be updated. Which they will be.**

 **Hope you like it, please review.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own "Percy Jackson & the Olympians". **

Like many Hollywood romances, it began at a very wild, wild party. Also like few (but still a surprising number) of Hollywood romances, it also began in the bathroom.

It took place at a swanky new manor, owned by some producer who wanted to break into directing, and with no expense spared. Unfortunately exorbitant spending paired poorly with a distressing lack of taste in fashion. Decor was garish, the music from a cover-band managed to be simultaneously the worst vibes of the '80's and still otherwise entirely forgettable, and the guest list was comprised the most desperate and the most dismissive people in show business. Naturally they waged an unspoken war of passive aggression against each other. Directors were beset on all sides by up-and-coming and has-been actors trying to make an impression for a role, the most needy hoping just for the vague promise of an audition. Actors were plagued by fans who gate-crashed, or more opportunistic sharks offering business cards, declaring themselves agents, co-producers, or vague titles of similar semi-importance. At least half were posers, and it took experienced players of the Hollywood game to sift through the dregs and dross. Writers and tech specialists just huddled together validating each other.

But the biggest deals weren't made with an exchange of cards and numbers, "your people call my people", more often it was an exchange of fluids. A few (or more) drinks, a bit of tongue with a kiss, a dozen rooms reserved for the sorts of depravities only the hyper-privileged would think of.

So, this 'love' story starts in one of the seven bathrooms, on a decidedly cheap and sour note.

The bathroom in question had a marble sink basin and steam shower, smelled like basil and lime scented candle (which was very different from either actual basil or actual lime) and a mix of regurgitated canapés and liquors. Beryl's poisons of choice for the evening included a few finger foods that looked to be puffed shellfish and lightly pickled cucumbers with a mix of white wine with tonic, and a cosmopolitan for both the taste and for the fancy glass they were served in since it paired well with her latest haircut. At the moment, she was poison of choice for a co-director or something with minimal responsibility and disproportionate power over an upcoming film. Even his name sounded fake, but Hollywood was full of assumed names and false faces so she didn't think much of it. Didn't think much of him either, but through the lenses of her cosmopolitan she could almost pretend his murky brown eyes were blue.

Couldn't pretend he was a better kisser.

The biggest problem right now though was the faucet digging into the small of her back. "Mm, not so fast-"

He broke off the kiss completely. "Don't ruin it by talking." Mr. Co-Director, she never got his name, resumed trying to French with a spastic tongue, hands fumbling up her dress until he reached her garters.

Beryl squirmed, trying to get comfortable, trying to get the least bit dignified. He only took her gyration for encouragement and pressed on his assault. This was supposed to be a much simpler romp, a chance to improve her chances for getting a call-back that was supposed to go to Nicole Kidman before she dropped out without warning. Had Beryl ever tried to pull a diva stunt like that she would've been blacklisted from any picture, but she wasn't a household name or married to a household name or even sleeping with a household name. Maybe this was an all-time low? Not like she hadn't done worse but...

She could try to get out of this with some basic dignity intact, without the torn dress and ripped stockings that was the defining mark of an amateur trying to start sleeping her way up to stardom, or the fading star screwing her way back into relevance.

"Get off," she demanded, trying to push him back with heel of her hand on his chest.

"I'm trying babe, stop talking about it."

Dammit if she didn't deserve some professionalism from this coked-up imbecile. Bathroom this nice, this roomy, there were options beyond necking and pawing each other like a couple of teenagers. She could've hung her dress up on the hook and he'd have gotten a glimpse of the new lingerie she had for feeling slinky, they could've gotten cozier on a few of the luxurious looking towels overtop the tiles, and then she'd have a chance to fix her makeup with a proper mirror to assess the state of her _deshabille,_ but instead he had her pressed up against the sink so hard she thought it was happy to see her... and more impressive than him for that matter.

And still he wouldn't stop, and when she heard the rip of fabric that had to be from her dress, Beryl snapped. "Get _off me!"_ And this time she kicked the jerk hard enough to get him stumbling into the shower stall.

"You goddam bitch!" He clutched his chest where she had kicked him with stiletto heels. "Don't you know how this works?"

"Yes, with me not working for you," she snapped back, smoothing out her dress and assessing the damage. Too high and ragged for her to play it off as a designed slit, maybe if she hadn't worn the stockings and suspenders, maybe if she had gone with the silver number instead of her aqua-blue chiffon instead. She may have been out of work and she may have resorted to these sorts of... arrangements to jumpstart her career, but she was established and she was used to the upper echelons of the business enough to have some class. At the very least serviceable technique. Not this loser.

Definitely was the cosmopolitan to blame. She wasn't drinking those again, maybe just martinis from now on.

Now Beryl Grace certainly hadn't been in a lot of major motion pictures, but she had been in enough to have soaked in the tired cliché that the put upon spunky heroine stood up to the bully and the bully backed down. Sadly this was a lie, as in the real world more often than not the coked up bully just waits waits for you to turn around and hits you.

The pain was sudden and it was tremendous, but the biggest worry Beryl had wasn't for her safety but for image. She had been struck, sucker punched really, in the back of the head hard enough she was propelled into the mirror hard enough to crack it. A piece of glass broke off and shattered in the sink, and Beryl was staggering blindly against the countertop, feeling the fresh welt on her head and a new cut slick with blood.

"You should've seen that coming, if you weren't so busy looking at your wrinkles." The rejected jerk muttered, making a poor attempt at a joke about 'objects in mirror closer than they appear' or something. Maybe he was nervous, maybe he realized he had gone too far. "Oh get up, you're not a good enough actress to sell this, you're fine-"

It all felt thick and runny between Beryl's fingers, and she felt like she was going to throw up (again), and what if she had a scar right on her forehead, makeup would never be able to cover that-!

"I said get up, you're fine!" Co-director coke-head demanded, grabbing a fistful of her hair.

Beryl wasn't hurt, surprised, or panicked enough to start doing the 'insensible' thing and scream, she had her career to think about and people finding out about this would just ruin any silver screen chances faster than if the paparazzi got pictures of her children. Single mother actresses were lucky to star in pinko off-Broadway plays. She struggled quietly as possible, biting his wrist and flailing with her arms, but all she managed was yanking off a cufflink with her teeth and nearly swallowing it.

"Sir?" That was a new voice... _please don't let it be someone important,_ thought Beryl. Thankfully it wasn't anyone she recognized, and he was dark-skinned enough to be a waiter here. "Should I get help? The lady seems to need a change of scenery, maybe a hospital-?"

"Mind your own business, Kemosabe!"

"Tonto," Beryl's new rescuer corrected with a long-suffering sigh that had to be real, not acted out.

Wasn't what the jerk was expecting. "What?"

"Tonto called the Lone Ranger _'Kemosabe'_ ," he explained patiently, "and it was a term of endearment so you probably didn't mean it that way. But honestly I'm still just relieved someone here didn't just assume I was Mexican. I'm still going to hit you now."

There wasn't another warning, Sir Lancelot in the cheap suit just decked the woman-beating jerk with a southpaw cross that gave Beryl a vindictive spark of delight. Mr. Bigshot with the little package landed by the toilet, fittingly enough, with at least two teeth scattering to make noise like dice on the tile floor.

Suddenly Beryl noticed that even though he was dark enough to be related to her gardener, and though dressed like he was late for a court appointment, her rescuer (wincing and clenching his bleeding left fist, erasing her doubts he really was human) was actually quite cute. More than passable for cute even. If he was one of the gate-crashing novice actors trying to make a lasting impression, he definitely made the wrong sort with this director.

Well, _co_ -director, so screw that piece of shit.

"Thank you," she stage-whispered, turning on the most expressively vulnerable, grateful eyes she could for his benefit. But it was wasted, or so she thought, because he was already getting her a washcloth off the counter for her face. "Can you get me out of here? Please?"

"That's probably a good idea." He agreed fast enough that she knew she was right and he wasn't supposed to be here, and he made a much bigger impression than he had meant to. "Do you have any friends-?"

"Not here," she said quickly. Truth was she didn't have any friends in the whole state, let alone these strangers she was invited with here. She got them both walking out, holding on to his arm and keeping close so no one noticed her ripped dress. The washcloth? Well as long as there wasn't any blood seeping through she had a migraine and that was it. He matched her well enough that they managed to turn some hungry, jealous stares as they hastily weaved through the manor out towards the front gate.

"Do you need a ride?" He offered hesitantly, knowing how that must sound. His trepidation was endearing, the younger man was a lamb among lions in the Hollywood hills when he wasn't throwing punches at (semi-)important people.

Still she was lucid enough and with enough leftover anger and fear to act a little indignant in the face of perceived insult. "I'll be fine, I haven't had that much to dri-"

But he stopped her mid-lie, "I just mean you've a bonk on the head."

Bless him, he was actually concerned. That warranted some honesty. But just a little. "I took a cab," she admitted ruefully. She didn't tell him that her driver quit and she couldn't afford another.

He only smiled back, teeth very straight and even. "So did I," he laughed, looking relieved.

"Do you want to share?" She offered.

"No, that wouldn't... I live kinda far." He sighed. Definitely struggling actor. "And I have to get straight home for the sitter and everything-"

If she had been more curious, or genuinely interested about him beyond appearances, maybe Beryl would've asked him about 'sitter'; if he had a pet or a child, or if that child came with a spouse and if his wife was working too or if she was even still in the picture. But she didn't, she just helped flag down a cab, ripped dress good for showing a little leg. There was no doubt in her mind that there had to be a wife at one point, as she smugly noted he paid entirely too much attention to the exposed leg and garter to be anything but straight.

Cute and chivalrous and _straight_ , in this town? What would they think of next? Then again, Beryl was spoiled by a glut of handsome, or outright gorgeous men, so she didn't think anything of it. Romance was ruined for tonight anyway, until he opened the cab door for her and gave an unsolicited "Tristan."

"Hm?"

"Tristan McLean, it's um..." He tousled his dark chocolate brown hair for lack of anything else to say, embarrassed.

"That's nice," she commented nonchalantly, slipping off her heels and tossing them in the backseat of the cab. Then, feeling charitable, "I'm Beryl-"

"Grace, Beryl Grace," he smiled slightly. "I know." He shrugged as if to say 'naturally'.

It did wonders for her ego. In a rush of gratitude and flirtatious mischief, she stood tiptoe to kiss him on the lips. It held a bit longer than she had anticipated, long enough for him to kiss back quite well, and she arched her back appreciatively before breaking away to climb in the cab.

"Catch you later," she promised, grinning. She shut the door and enjoyed the look of longing and blushing bemusement on his face. Then she paid the cabby and gave him her address, forgetting about it entirely, privately declaring the whole party a bust.

Truthfully neither of them thought much of it at all... that only changed with the latest tabloid photo. That changed everything.


	2. A Deal is (Star) Struck

**This'll be finished much quicker than all my other works.**

 **It's not going to end on a cliffhanger, so don't worry. Might even have the chance to write some oneshots in this world if requested.**

 **Just should note, in this AU, the biggest change/difference is Beryl chose not to abandon Jason. Everyone suffers anyway.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own "Percy Jackson & the Olympians"**.

It took about six months for the people who _should've_ taken most interest to finally start paying attention. Six months for them to notice to notice their clients were in the paper. Gossip rags, sure, but still a front page with a photograph and everything. A clear sign that Tristan McLean was considered a low priority by his talent agency, though that was about to change when his assistant Jane told him that his agent had found him an opportunity of a lifetime.

"BERYL GRACE LANDS NEW MYSTERY MAN"

"You absolute dog," his agent, a stocky sleaze in a pinstriped jacket overtop a stained basketball jersey named Richard 'Chaz' Crowe, grinning as he slapped greasy hand over the tabloid photo. "You magnificent sonofabitch, when was this a thing? It's perfect, and you didn't even know? Bah! Youth and beauty is wasted on babes and bimbos. You're lucky you've got me, I'm leading you away from wolves."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Tristan admitted honestly.

Jane, his assistant, elbowed him subtly. It was an overly familiar move on her part. She had been very attentive since he...

Well it had been a mistake sleeping with her but that he could _say_ he could afford an assistant in this town meant the world. It made all the difference in meetings like this to have her take notes and speak for him when he felt out of his depth. He couldn't afford this service otherwise and he wasn't at risk of falling in love with Jane. Though some days he wasn't sure if she hadn't fallen in love for him, which would make things awkward, but he doubted it. Jane had been doing odds and ends for would-be-stars since she was in her early twenties, naïveté and innocence had probably been stamped out of her to leave behind a reptilian social climber in pantsuits.

There might've been more to Jane, Tristan hoped that there was, but when he was being perfectly honest with himself he didn't really care. Maybe this town was changing him in ways. He wasn't sure he liked what he was becoming.

Another overly familiar elbow to Tristan's side. "I'm sorry Mr. Crowe, I didn't-"

"Don't call me that, that Australian bastard is dead to me, it's 'Chaz' babe."

"Right, Chaz, I didn't think this was a big deal at all. We met once at a party. She seemed unwell and needed to leave early. She was pretty formidable." Should he mention the kiss that took him completely off-guard? No, that was private.

Then again he glanced under the headline and that private moment was caught in a shot that made it seem like Beryl was all but ready to drag him into the cab. Oh, so much for that.

"Poor, trusting Tristan," Chaz sighed. When he shook his head pityingly like that, his artful, gravity-defying combover started to come unraveled. Tristan didn't have the heart to point it out. "This is a move, a play. Older woman cozies up to younger, upcoming star, suddenly the papers are all 'what's he see in her?' and 'hope for women over forty'-"

Tristan pointed out glibly, "Isn't she young enough to be your daughter?"

"Son, I'm trying to help you, don't go hurting my feelings like that with slander." Chaz reflexively checked, then fixed, his combover. "And it gets you public. I always said, the target demographic for you...?"

"Women fourteen to forty," Tristan recited.

"Bah, what do I know? What do you know? If the country gets more chances to see that beautiful bronze mug of yours it'll be nine to ninety-nine, every single one'll want you to stick a feather in their cap."

Tristan tried not to grind his teeth, but Chaz was already apologizing for the incidental slur. Wasn't like Tristan hadn't dealt with worse anyway, and sleaze or not, Chaz was one of the few agents that respected his wishes not to appear typecast in token "Indian" roles. All he had said was that Tristan would have to slog through some shit before he got halfway decent roles.

While Tristan was prepared to work hard, having already resigned himself to taking no shortcuts in this showbiz life, this wasn't one like any shortcut he had imagined when he made that particular vow. It was making him uncomfortable thinking about it, but Piper going to public schools in this town filled him with immeasurable dread.

If nothing else he was a fan of Beryl's work, she seemed quite professional, his unfortunate first meeting with her aside. Not counting that kiss either because that? That kiss, that was something else entirely.

He glanced over to Jane. She just kept writing in her notepad, glancing between him and the tabloid picture of him embracing Beryl Grace with an expression more opportunistic greed than jealousy. After all, this was a chance for one of her stars to get much needed publicity. Maybe she was as impersonal about their affair as he thought after all. A bit disappointing, but good to know.

"So should we set up a... meeting?" Tristan looked between his agent and assistant. He almost called it an date, but that'd be mortifying, definitely crossing over into gigolo territory.

"Oh you're already handled baby bear," Chaz assured with a slimy wink that reminded Tristan uncomfortably that gigolos had to come with pimps.

"We'll set you aside for an upscale brunch," Jane announced, with a definitive stab of her pen into note paper, looking quite pleased with herself. "You will show up, make small talk to iron out any scheduling issues the two of you might have individually for the next month, take the time to set aside a day for a public date, and agree to escort to any events with one veto each afforded. I've already used yours so that you can plan your daughter's birthday."

"But that's not a sure thing," Chaz added hastily.

"No, it is a pretty certain thing," Tristan corrected evenly. No matter how famous he ended up getting, he promised himself he would always make time for Piper.

Of course he would never be able to tell how famous he would get, especially now, but the thought was there.

"Checks will be split," Jane continued, only to pause and look over to Tristan from her notes. "The time will be 11:35 AM, don't let her drink."

"But you just said it was set for 11:35?"

Jane gave him a much longer a look, halfway between pitying and patronizing. "I know."

…

Beryl's publicist didn't like her.

She'd known that for the longest time now, but it came suddenly back to her attention when she had to find out she was in the paper herself. She would've found out sooner but she had stopped paying attention to anything that wasn't front page and related to her for about a year and a half. She had been disappointed until now.

Once she discovered the tabloid, after a short victory dance in her living room alone, she called him up and harangued him into submission. She demanded to know why they weren't setting appointments up with this very photogenic young man, finding if he was represented by anyone. She looked positively glowing in his arms, like he was giving back her old spark

That thought made her sad. She knew it wasn't real. He couldn't compare to her reality. The important thing was that it looked enough like real in the paper.

Her publicist spent the morning "apologizing" profusely, and tracked down the mystery man to set up a quaint brunch meeting. Beryl curtly told him it was acceptable, and hung up, still secretly giddy.

So what if she had to play the bitch to get what she needed? She had played other roles before and played them supremely, this was nothing she couldn't handle.

Fetching her scissors she made to add the latest photo to her personal photo album. This was definitely worth chronicling for posterity, her legitimate return to spotlight. Frowning when she couldn't find the glue, she called out "Jason? Has your sissy been in momma's things again?"

Soft and deliberate padding of socked feet was her only warning before her youngest, Jason, came to peer around the corner. Maybe it was the lighter coloring of hair maybe it was seeing more of his father's jaw in his developing features, but for all the talk of parents loving children equally well...she had a favorite, special little boy.

"Thal's touched glue for sool." Frustrated, Jason tried again, face scrunched up. " _School_."

"That so?" It was hard not to have a favorite when that girl was the competition. Just the other day she had found cigarettes in that little future lesbian's jacket, and she she calls about her skipping class from all the teachers. And then a fire? Ugh. Probably from smoking.

Nasty habit, she mused, pouring herself a little celebratory Irish Coffee. "Jason baby, could you go get mommy's scrapbook and glue? Thank you sweetie."

Jason obeyed immediately, and Beryl felt definitely pride. Such a lovely boy. Things could've been so different if...

She wasn't going to think about that though. Focus on the present and the future, don't dwell on what almost happened in the past. Especially with the future looking so bright.

Looking like a kiss that was almost electric.

…

The two of them met for brunch.

Tristan took the time to actually shop for and buy a new suit. He didn't wear a tie, but he hadn't gotten any complaints, especially with the top two buttons undone. He wondered if it was possible for a man to be slutty, decided not to risk unbuttoning the third.

In contrast Beryl arrived in an outfit that looked like she had planned it in advance for about a week. The tight periwinkle dress that made it to her knees only allowed for walking thanks to a generous slit that bared her whole knee and half of her cream-stocking clad thigh, with matching gloves that didn't quite make it to her elbows, and a pair of stunner shades.

Layman's terms, she dressed like someone imagined a movie star would dress. She had no trouble pulling off the look and she knew it judging by the habitual swing of the hips, and the coy smile that gave away that she knew people were looking.

But still: _whoa_.

He pulled the chair out for her, it was only chivalrous... then again, he found it was also helpful for checking out how a woman was wearing her dress. Not just ass grabbing, actually paying attention to how a dress fit could factor into how smoothly Tristan could peel it off his date. They had always been very appreciative of his attention to detail, and the anticipation. Beryl's current ensemble left a deal of tanned back exposed with just a clasp behind the neck, on her left side barely visible was the proper zipper to get it slid all the way off. All these details Tristan habitually filed away.

"Thank you for meeting me," Tristan began politely.

She waved his pleasantries off unconcernedly. "Please, don't. It's the least I could do."

"Yes I'm glad that-" Tristan fumbled with his words when she took off her stunner shades to meet his eyes with a heavy lidded, practiced sultry minx look. "I'm just glad it's under better circumstances."

She shrugged nearly bare shoulders. "That was nothing, let's not ruin such a perfect day. Have you ordered?"

"My first time here," he admitted, "but I ordered a pitcher of the sweet tea."

For a moment she stared at him, lips pursed, calculating. He worried he'd offended her, that she'd seen through his ruse to get her away from mimosa or sangria. After a few moments though, to his relief, she only asked "not decaf I hope?"

He smiled, with all his charm. "Not if it's proper sweet tea."

She laughed like he imagined Daisy Buchanan would laugh ever since he read a torn cover copy of _The Great Gatsby_. Maybe that should've been a warning. Maybe it was just his imagination. Either way he asked short questions and made short quips and subtle jokes throughout the rest of their first "date" just for more chances to get her to talk excitedly about old performances, dream roles, to listen to her laugh again.

Perhaps he was a sucker for that laugh, because he definitely agreed to more than he should've. By the end of the night, she'd ended up talking him into a date every two weeks when the original plan was once a month, and he'd be wearing a tie or a silk shirt next time. He also agreed to send flowers to her dressing room _if_ she got that part of Lady MacBeth, though he did manage to talk her down from two dozen roses down to a dozen. It wasn't much but it made him feel like he had a bit more of a spine.

"What about PDA?" It was surprising that he had to be the one to bring it up, almost as surprising that it wasn't brought up yet.

"Save it for the cameras?" Beryl sipped her tea, gauging his reaction.

"I thought that too," Tristan started slowly, cautiously. "Then again, well, we didn't know during the first kiss, so if we only turn it on for obvious swarms of paparazzi and play this out we'll get caught. Right?"

Beryl's nodded approvingly. "So we what, handle this method acting?"

"I'd rather not," Tristan winced. "I've known some pretty big asshole method actors."

"How can you tell?" Beryl smiled wryly, and it was a deal more genuine than the 'come-hither' smiles she shot at him between requests and probing questions. "Maybe they're just deep in character for someone who's _written_ as an asshole?"

"No one can play an asshole that well unless they're full of shit," Tristan denied flatly. "Anyone who plays it that well that quick I don't want anything to do with off-camera."

Another laugh, and he knows he said the right thing. "Alright then, we play this _natural,_ shouldn't be so hard."

"You're a pretty good actress," he teased, smiling back as he raised his own perspiring glass of tea. "Or so I've heard."

"I've done a few things," Beryl breezily admitted as she tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, no doubt deliberately showing off a profile of her gorgeous neck and delicate wrist. "But really, I mean, I'm not going to have much trouble faking it with you."

"And I don't think I'll have much trouble pretending to be in love with you either," Tristan admitted. It was true, he pretended for a while since…well since Piper's mother. With more women than he probably should have ever gotten involved with.

Then again, heartbroken didn't mean dead, and certainly not impotent. Clearly though Beryl thought he meant something else, judging by her eyes widening in something between surprised and alarmed. Great, last thing he needed was for her to think he was a crazy fan who lucked into a fake relationship with her. He wasn't _crazy_.

"I mean, we're both good at what we do and we're not a bad match. On paper anyway."

"Or in the papers," Beryl added with obvious relish that made her seem more dangerous. Like a rattlesnake rattle. "We just need to agree to boundaries and keep it professional."

Tristan held his arms wide in an open, exaggerated 'of course' gesture. "Boundaries and professionalism are no problem."

She giggled, sipped her sweet tea. "No problems, no unnecessary unscripted drama."

"Of course. Just play it natural."

"Naturally." Beryl smiled, and toyed with her straw.


	3. First Dates, First Time, First Meeting

**Once again, thank you to everyone who has reviewed, favorited, or followed.**

 **Here's another chapter, and quick warning: has some intimacy in it, so if anyone thinks I need to change the rating, let me know in a PM.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own "Percy Jackson the Olympians".**

'Natural' lasted about four months and then they end up in bed at her place.

Either way, Beryl was impressed with both of them for different reasons. It turned out Tristan McLean was something of a romance prodigy: soul of a poet and body of a bodice-ripper pirate off a paperback.

It had been a while since she had actually seen the original movie, and she never did read the book, but Beryl was certain that people were supposed to swoon at Wesley's "as you wish" and not Inigo's "You killed my father, prepare to die". When Tristan read it aloud though, that wasn't the case. She had hitched her rocket to the right shooting star. Or something to that effect.

It was hard to keep them all straight, she might've had a pair of martinis tonight. Oh and a daiquiri but that seemed so long ago.

Drinks aside she was impressed with herself, impressed that she had lasted this long. Sure the two of them had agreed to keep things professional, or rather "natural", but that just meant they were "naturally" letting things go further and faster.

Between her being up for consideration as a guest appearance on _Law & Order_ and him being understudy for a staged production of " _The Princess Bride_ ", they had grown closer and closer. Maybe not emotionally, he hadn't talked about his past that much and neither of them introduced the other to their respective children (thank goodness) but boundaries continued to be tested and they continued to test them.

Dinners with 'friends' got steadily more regular, and they'd sit closer and closer dinner they sat so close that she didn't notice or object when his hand stayed on her knee until the check arrived. And their kisses in public were reserved to shy pecks on the cheeks or brief touches of lip, but then she'd put a hand on the small of his back or tuck a finger in the waistband of his jeans to feel beginnings of well-trimmed fuzz that she realized she wasn't faking her flirting for possible cameras. No, she actually craved him.

And when they were watching B-movies together, something they called "research" but was really a way to unwind and laugh at the misfortune actors trapped in contracts playing ridiculous clichés, it was clear he wanted her too. She didn't blame him, that was unstoppable, but how he pursued it was new and exciting. The first night he had paid more attention to the movie than her, then asked her about it in-depth, arguing about quality of the lead actresses. Then they were laughing together at bad special effects around the dead-serious fading action stars fast approaching their forties and fifties.

By the third time she had gotten used to his hand on her knee, but when it strayed into the hem of her skirt and 'twanged' one of her nylons with a deliberate flick, she knew he was wanting more. Just careful about it, careful to tell her where there wouldn't be cameras to catch her rebuffing or arguing. Which was considerate, since they hadn't scheduled a break-up or a fight yet. Trying that without a script could get messier than necessary.

No she resolved to let him down gently, in private, with the courtesy and professionalism they had agreed to going into this. He deserved that much, both of them did.

Again, that was the plan, really it was. Problem was those martinis. Alright, and the daiquiri she supposed.

She made the right call taking her shoes off, the heels on the hardwood might've woken up the children and she'd be mortified if this was the night one of them walked in.

But try as she might she couldn't keep down the case of the giggles when he muzzled her neck. "Take me to bed."

"As you wish," he vowed playfully, lips on the shell of her ear. He had told her he knew this trick but she didn't believe him, but with a few sharp twists of his tongue and sudden pressure he had removed both her earrings. He took the time to break apart from her to drop them from his lips into his palm and put them on the vanity, not dropping his a devious smile.

Oh but she wasn't having any of that. "I don't want the farmboy, give me Dread Pirate Roberts."

"Well in that case," he growled as he advanced, forcing her to back up against the foot of her bed, unbuttoning the rest of his shirt. "I should warn you; the Dread Pirate Roberts takes no prisoners!"

He lunged which caught her off-guard and gave her another frightful fit of the giggles, and she let out an 'ooft!' of surprise when he picked her up and threw her bodily to bounce disoriented on silk sheets. She had just enough time for one luxurious stretch to show all her legs in the bunched up dress to tease him, but only that much time and then he was on her, and she was pleading for him to hurry and take no prisoners.

He ignored her pleas though, and handled her clothing with reverence that frustrated her and made her shiver with want.

She was glad he didn't though, it must have cost hundreds, that one slinky number she picked out just for him. The lingerie she was being worshiped in right now must've cost two or... o-or... oh...

Calculating the cost of her wardrobe could wait.

"Please... please there... love me..." she hated how broken her voice was sounding when she urged him on. Hated how she sounded closer to tears than satisfaction, and yes satisfaction was definitely coming.

No, this wasn't her begging. This was a sure thing, a home run. He was more than a little in love with her. She could tell this, she wasn't ever going to get left again. She wasn't only for being used, she wasn't possessed, and she wasn't going to be alone.

No, he was going to love her and Tristan McLean didn't have a wife and a family somewhere else. He'd grow old and she'd not hate herself seeing him staying young while she was wasted away.

She didn't mind his kisses were the imitation of that electricity, she could fake the sparks if it meant not being alone.

Oh...

...

Boundaries definitely got crossed.

This whole thing felt like a mistake. Tristan expected, had accepted, the whole thing being a lie but not one that'd go this far.

But it had been months and he hadn't tried since he had met Beryl at that party, since then he hadn't tried to forget and try to love someone else.

He had to try again after all, he refused to begin to think that something in his heart wasn't just broken but dead.

Oh, and Beryl certainly hadn't any complaints, no.

Honestly she seemed more surprised than turned on (and she was plenty turned on) when he took charge in bed. It wasn't like she didn't know what she was doing, but he had to prove something and he had taken great satisfaction in making her beg, curse, and most definitely scream. He had a love-bite all across his collarbone where she had latched teeth to his clavicle when he pulled her sideways into his lap and she desperately muffled her screams biting down on him hard enough to feel like she had broken skin and bruised bone.

Not that she hadn't given as good as she got. She had risen to every challenge, rode him like a she was rodeo star, holding back another scream biting her fist stuffed against her mouth. Then again when he pressed up against her and into her, forcibly and repeatedly from behind, he could make out just over the knocking headboard that same cry of want muffled into her pillow.

They tried nearly everything in a short time, with more definitely to come. But the problem arose in missionary, where and whenever he looked into her eyes when he was trying to lose himself in her and saw the truths that chilled him even as he dripped sweat and satisfaction; she wasn't who he wanted her to be, and she was trying to do the same exact thing he was.

So he drowned out her pleas to love her, harder or faster or anyway else, ignored her eyes being too desperate, greedy, and faded, and he buried his face in her hair and buried the rest of him deeper still.

No matter though. In the beginning of the night the illusion held, but at the start of the day he knew better. He'd not be able to love this lonely, wanting, grasping creature any more than he had loved another since Piper's mother, not so completely and purely. Something was wrong with him that he could not be in that place again with someone else. But maybe that she couldn't either was a sign of hope and not despair.

Or maybe she was recovering and he was dragging her down, maybe he wasn't giving her enough credit. He doubted it though.

Who could really tell? Maybe it all meant nothing. Oh, Tristan doubted that most of all but he found comfort in that lie.

Food for later thought then, with food for thought ready to wait behind actual food. Least he could do was make some breakfast. He didn't think he'd step on any toes, however well off Beryl might be this seemed a very private, compact home that probably didn't have a chef, maid, or butler he might end up running into.

So he pulled on his jeans and stuffed feet into his boots, having worn down the heels enough not to worry about waking up 'lady company' on his way tiptoeing out of _boudoirs_. He spared a look behind at Beryl, curled up as lithe, naked, and satisfied as a well fed cat in tangled sheets, smile on her face making her look decades younger.

Tempting as it was Tristan opted not to wake her with a kiss. His notably successful experience taught him women responded better to well-cooked bacon than half-baked imitations of fairytales.

Downstairs, the metallic fridge had scarce space to observe his reflection but it was enough for him to notice a few angry looking scratches Beryl made against his hips. He chuckled, and opened the refrigerator to dig through and find milk that was thankfully still fresh, two eggs, and some unopened packets of Canadian bacon. He shut the door, bacon packets in teeth, and set it all down on marble countertop before looking for a pan to scramble the eggs.

It took a whole history of improv classes for him not to scream and panic at the tiny " _Mad Max_ " extra already sitting at table watching him critically, eating string cheese.

She had blue eyes, sharper blue than Beryl, but had the same chin and faint smattering of freckles across nose and cheekbones destined to grow sharp and aristocratic. There the similarities ended, both coloring and fashion, with this girl having long and messy dark hair done up in choppy leonine mane that made her seem wild but smaller. She had a faded leather jacket overtop striped pjs, and the bizarre picture was completed with hot-dog slippers, one with felt mustard Velcro and the other with felt ketchup.

Beryl did mention she had children from a previous relationship in passing, but he didn't think they were home. He didn't think at all, and now Tristan made sense of all the times Beryl muffled her cries of pleasure, and now he felt immensely guilty about the noisy headboard. Most of all though he wished he was wearing a damn shirt. He had no idea how old this, um, girl-child was but she certainly was giving him an analytical look far beyond her years.

When she did speak, it was softer than he had expected. "So," she nearly trilled, when he had been expecting a growl. "Are you my new dad or whatever?"

Oh.

Oh _crud_.

"It's a bit more complicated than that," Tristan began honestly, not to mention awkwardly.

He had no idea how right that was going to turn out to be.


	4. A Few Years of Fights & Drama

**Thank you everyone who has reviewed!**

 **And thank goodness the reviews have started showing up again when I go to look at them. I promise I'll answer some of them when I get the time. And very, very pleased with the positive reception this story has gotten.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own "Percy Jackson & the Olympians". **

If it wasn't for their children, none of this would ever have gone so far, which perfectly summed up all Beryl's complicated feelings towards kids in general.

They were cute, especially at first, and they loved unconditionally until they started talking back. Best of all though, and Beryl didn't believe this until Jason started to walk on his own, children really did make you feel young.

When they were little of course, and then they started to give you grey hairs. Thalia's mouthy little preteen self must've cost her hundreds in hair-dye.  
Of course they loved Tristan though.

From past experiences, she had assumed he left before morning when she woke up alone. When she smelled food, her initial pleasure died immediately at the thought of Thalia using the stove again, and she quickly threw on a robe and sprinted down.

The domestic scene caught her off-guard, but not in an upsetting way. Rather an alien sort of happiness; it was the first time in her life Beryl had seen a family breakfast with family members who could stand each other. Idly, and pessimistically, she wondered if her joining in would spoil that.

"You cook," Beryl noted, looking over Tristan flipping a second-helping of bacon for Thalia and Jason. Her wild-child daughter slurped down all orange juice that Beryl had been reserving for her mimosas, and Jason sat regally in his booster-seat, carefully using his colorful plastic breakfast spoon. His face was still a mess though, until Thalia proved she was good for something by cleaning up his cheeks with a napkin.

"Not too much," Tristan demurred. "Oh, you're out of milk."

Honestly Beryl didn't remember buying milk. She sat down and ate sparingly, watching Tristan clean a glass wearing a spotless apron that she didn't remember buying either. It wasn't a bad view. Certainly wasn't bad cooking.

"He seems nice," Thalia murmured through bits of eggs.

"Don't talk with your mouth full," Beryl snapped reflexively. Taking stock in this new development demanded all her attention.

* * *

"Come again?"

"I'd love to but I really have to go." Pausing in the middle of pulling on her sundress only to give him a wink, Beryl returned to her extensive vanity to browse through lipsticks. She had an impressive collection of shades and colors Tristan couldn't name.

"No, you know what I mean," he insisted. "Why can't you find a sitter?"

"My usual one has a thing, completely unreliable." Beryl picked a shade of maroon with an erotic sheen. "Why should I spend my money to hire a stranger? I have you. And the kids love you. Jason always asks about you. Well he also thinks Triskets are named after you but he's still a good judge of character."

Now Tristan was starting to worry about the presumption. They've had this 'arrangement' for close to a year now, and apart from a few dozen breakfasts he prepared the morning after he spent the night he hadn't really interacted with Thalia or Jason to the 'babysitting' extent. "Beryl, I might've had plans."

"Well, do you?"

"No, well... no." He thought about it. "I've been reading through scripts but so far the only thing I learned was avoid titles with Roman numerals."

"That's nice."

"Piper, I don't have a sitter for her on this sort notice."

"That's perfect."

"Beryl, no, you have to listen. I can't just leave her by herself-"

"I heard you Tristan," Beryl interrupted breezily, trying on sunglasses. "Bring her over."

"What?"

"Bring her over, she and Jason are the same age, aren't they?" Beryl picked her sunglasses, apparently by rhinestone ratio, and was now pursuing her collection of handbags. "And Thalia could benefit from some more responsibility. And you keep saying how you want Piper to make friends?"

That actually did sound tempting. "I guess that could work."

"Of course." Beryl picked out a small, sparkly clutch that matched her sunglasses.

"But look, favors aside, you can't spring these things on short notice anymore."

"I wouldn't if it wasn't important." Now her tone was getting defensive. "Didn't I tell you my usual sitter was unavailable, unreliable, and by the time I'm finished absolutely un-hirable?"

"Fine, I said I'd do it. Might be nice."

"Of course."

"What's the occasion?"

"I've a date."

Now Beryl turned to him, looking over her sunglasses at him, one stenciled eyebrow (when did she redo those?) raised almost incredulously. Clearly the answer was supposed to be obvious.

"I'm glad you're clearing that up," Tristan managed, though it came out a little more clipped than he would've liked it to. "Clears up a lot."

"You're not upset, are you?" Beryl asked, gaze probing.

"A little but I don't see why I should be," he answered, tone a little more even than before now that he was prepared. "I hardly kept us exclusive."

"Works out perfectly," Beryl smiled. "And you're still the best man to have on my arm."

"Wouldn't have it any other way," Tristan assured cheerily. He kept up his forced smile until she left, and only then did he fall back in bed fighting the urge to go out and hit something.

Took him a minute to remember he really was still seeing other people if his casual arrangement with Jane counted. He nearly forgot.

Guess that was the sort of man he was becoming.

* * *

The first day of school for Jason was resurfacing bad memories. Beryl's breakfast of toast with pistachio butter was in danger of resurfacing too, bile rising in the back of her throat worse than any stage fright. She willed herself to hold it together, last thing she wanted was to be one of those mothers who was crying just as much as the clinging toddlers.

She couldn't help it though, it was like she was back getting ready to leave him all over again and... No. She made her choice, she made the right one, and she'd be right back. She refused to believe otherwise.

"You've got your lunch?"

"Yes mom."

"All your books?"

"Yes mom, and pencils."

"Good, good," she took a fortifying breath. "Don't be scared, or at least don't let the other kids know you're scared."

"I'm not." If Beryl was being completely honest, Jason looked more prepared for this than she felt by a miles. He had always been a thoughtful little prince, except now he was standing at attention to wait for permission to walk up to the front door with other first graders, completely at ease.

Definitely his father's son. Her beautiful boy.

"You'll make plenty of friends," she boasted.

"Yes mom."

"If you get nervous you can ask to go to the nurse and you get her to call me right away." She smiled sweetly. "Alright?"

"I'll try not to bother you."

"You won't," though Beryl wasn't sure that was a good thing if she didn't get another role. She was well on her way to being put out to pasture as an actress unless she established herself in serious roles, and soon. On a lighter note, for them both, she added "and you'll have at least one friend going in, you'll never guess who..?"

Jason waited patiently, knowing his mother well enough to not deny her the big reveal.

"Piper," she cooed. Those two were just the cutest together. Even if she and Tristan hadn't gotten involved, and if she was completely unbiased, she'd still love how photogenic her little prince looked with the teeny Cherokee beauty queen. The playdates between the two of them were Hallmark card level adorable.

Now Jason reacted, his stoic expression shifting briefly into something like terror, then sulky. "I don't feel so well."

"Oh hush," she laughed, lightly guiding him to the stairs. "Love you baby!" Oh to be young and have your biggest problems be cooties and puppy-love butterflies-in-the-stomach.

Speaking of, she'd have to check her answering machine when she got back home. Maybe one agency had gotten back while she was out.

"Excuse me? Um, excuse me?" Beryl Grace was tapped on the shoulder, and when she turned around there was a woman in her mid to late 20s who looked as excited as a high school girl. She wasn't not pretty but judging by the sweater vest with the food stain on it, she had given up on whatever dreams came independent of motherhood years ago.

She immediately put Beryl on edge. "Can I help you?" Though what she really wanted to ask was, in most sarcastic tone possible, 'do I know you?' But she knew enough from her years of being single mother with Thalia that making enemies at her children's school only would come back to haunt her.

Besides, women like this tended to travel in herds or packs.

"Are you, and I'm so sorry if I'm off, but are you..? Aren't you Beryl Grace?"

Sure enough, she was surrounded. Apparently this was a pack of mothers and not of herd. For a brief moment Beryl wondered if the heard about her from all of Thalia's old schools before she was sent to New York. Thankfully that didn't seem to be the case, their faces were more expectant than accusatory. And it always felt good to be in the spotlight, to be center of attention. "Oh, shoot. Yes that's me, I didn't want this to become this whole scene-"

" _OhmyGod_ you know Tristan McLean!"

What? "Why yes... yes I do."

"You're dating Tristan McLean," the lead soccer mom gushed, and some of the others were blushing, making spectacles of fanning themselves or giggling like teenagers, even the one with short hair that Beryl would've bet her left leg was a lesbian.

"Yes, have been about..." Now Beryl pretended to think about it, feigning a convincingly sly smile. "Oh nearly two years now. The time just flies by, where does it go?"  
"You have got to dish," one of the women pleaded, and the others soon echoed the request excitedly.

Beryl halfheartedly 'dished' some scandalous gossip, not willing to pass an opportunity to be center of attention. The rest of her was focused on bottling up seething jealousy. 

* * *

Tristan had some reservations about this, but the only way he would've been able to afford to live in a place as nice as the Grace family's home and pay for Piper's tuition was if he took that modeling deal.

While the offered money was good, the articles of clothing he'd be expected to wear put him at ill-ease. The day he oiled up his chest and posed in what amounted to a leather washcloth for everyone to see was the day he'd bash his brains out with a brick.

Besides, it only took a little convincing from Beryl in a tight wrap-around dress (which he already figured out how to untie one-handed) and from Piper's infectious delight that she and her 'boyfriend' would be moving in together.

Piper actually believed it was Jason's idea and that he invited them both over. Which Tristan had to admit must seem a great deal more romantic than moving in with your girlfriend-of-convenience to avoid having to jump through financial hoops. Plus he liked to think maybe this was Beryl's way of coping with a slightly emptier nest after she was sent to a... Camp in New York.

He doubted it though; he was there to drive Beryl to drop off Thalia off at the airport and the young girl practically sprinted out.

Tristan couldn't find a fault with Beryl's relationship with Jason, but then again that was one good kid. On that much he agreed with Piper. They were getting old enough that they might be needing the talk, and Tristan wasn't looking forward to that at all.

Besides, Jason was too good a young man to worry about all that now. In fact, right now he was helping bring up boxes for the move.

Maybe too many at a time. "Whoa there son, hold your horses. You don't need to be setting any records."

"Piper asked me to help," Jason replied matter-of-factly, looking terribly resigned.

Tristan smiled, hiding a twinge of worry. This was becoming more the norm for the boy, though he only got these glimpses of Jason's feelings when Piper wasn't around to (more or less) speak for him. It didn't seem like healthy behavior even if a crush was involved. "Jason, I appreciate how good a friend you've been to Piper these past few years but really, you don't have to do something just because she asks, not if you don't want to."

"Really? Is that the way it is with you and my mom?" Jason asked levelly, looking Tristan hard in the eye for reaction.

This time Tristan wasn't able to completely mask his embarrassment or worry. "That's not completely the same Jason, I mean, love is complicated."

Now Jason raised an eyebrow. "Love?"

Tristan hadn't actually been in trouble with the law, apart from that misunderstanding with police after an 'unscripted' fight he and Beryl got into. He played both defendant and lawyer on different shows though, but never got cross-examined as convincingly as now. "Adults," he amended, for Jason's benefit. "Adults are complicated."

"Uh-huh," Jason hefted the boxes purposefully, going inside Chateau Grace. "Please don't call me son."

Ouch.


	5. The Beach & the Betrayals

**Thank you to everyone who's reviewed, here's another chapter!**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own "Percy Jackson the Olympians"**.

* * *

The very first time they went to the beach, they hadn't brought the kids and picked a place with plenty of sun and privacy. Beryl thought those trips were the closest she had come to being perfectly happy with Tristan; but that changed when Piper turned thirteen and was sent to... learn self-control in New York with Thalia at that special Camp.

Now he insisted on bringing the children. All the while Beryl fought tooth and nail against it (once literally, but she was only trying to slap sense into him, honestly) but Tristan wouldn't drop it.

Maybe he wanted to spend time with all the kids for a change, maybe he wanted to show off the body that got him considered for that King of Sparta movie. It was down to him and some Scottish actor now, and Beryl was betting on Tristan for the role since he didn't have to worry about accent slipping.

She could've been wrong, except now they weren't on a private beach, and Tristan spent most of his time by the water signing autographs. And maybe it wouldn't have been so bad if most of those autographs weren't for college girls with itty-bitsy swimsuits.

She pretended not to notice, and he pretended she wasn't watching... until he deliberately met her eyes, signing a girl's cleavage in waterproof marker.

Beryl ground her teeth, letting out a frustrated huff, looking for an ally. Unfortunately Piper was out in the water with Jason, teaching him to surf. Despite all Jason's protests when he was apart from Piper, he didn't seem to mind as much now since she brought a bikini. And despite her self-avowed tomboy-isms, Piper never seemed to mind falling over into Jason's arms every time she convinced him to go along with some new game.

Oh to be that young and stupid again.

That left Beryl with just Thalia to talk to... great.

"So," she attempted. "Tell me about this Percy Jackson boy, he sounds interesting."

Thalia looked suspicious, the sun darkened up the freckles along the edge of her brow to make for a more expressive look of disdain. "He's Jason's age. And we're just friends."

"Well what about that Luke boy, he seemed nice-?"

"Well turned out he wasn't."

"Oh. Well I'm sorry."

"We don't have to talk." Thalia put her headphones back on. "Luke is dead, Percy is dating a girl who's like my little sister, and Jason is practically dating a girl who I can't stand who's _basically_ my stepsister. I haven't dated since Luke and all the boys and _girls_ " Thalia gave Beryl a nasty look at that reminder, "you introduced were horrible."

Yes, so Beryl made some unfortunate assumptions about her daughter's dating experiences, but she didn't think it was uncalled for her to think outside the box when it came to Thalia's romantic interests. She had tried to keep an open mind. "Wait, Luke died?"

"Mhmm, and we're all caught up." Thalia turned up the volume on her CD player. "Thanks."

Beryl pushed her sunglasses back on to cover up how fast she started blinking to keep back tears.

This was unbearably unfair.

Since when did no one recognize her? And when did she become the bad guy?

...

Tristan respected Jason's wishes, didn't bother to act like he was suddenly father of the year material. Still, he couldn't stop from worrying.

Jason and Piper dated on-and-off, and that worried him enough, except Piper seemed convinced she and Jason were meant to be while Jason seemed to be less sure. He had been writing letters (seriously, Tristan came to terms with Jason being an 'old soul', but what boy his age didn't have a cell phone?) to someplace with a California zip code. Meanwhile he hadn't made an effort to give Piper a Skype chat.

That wasn't even the worst part. Yes, Tristan disapproved of his daughter pursuing a boy who was indecisive and noncommittal about a relationship. Also was worried that Jason felt trapped in a relationship built up by expectations and didn't see a way out that didn't involve a lot of hurt feelings. Yes Tristan was worried about both of them being hurt, but he was more worried about how Jason seemed to have already been hurt and kept silent.

First he suspected Piper was pressuring him but he shut down that train of thought, believing it was both too ridiculous and horrifying to take seriously. Besides, it wouldn't explain things like the books Jason had taken to reading. At first it was mostly history books, but all with 'war' as the theme, and then books on PTSD.

Tristan had even found notes with Jason's handwriting in one of scripts for a proposed Jonathan Netanyahu biopic Tristan had been preparing for. They were distressingly extensive notes.

They were the notes of someone who had seen some very real shit go down.

Really this brought things like Jason's somber maturity, his mysterious contact in L.A., all that purple he kept wearing, and his firsthand accounts of losing friends to violence all to an unmistakable conclusion... but how was Tristan supposed to tell Beryl her son was in a gang?

Worse, how could he get Beryl to listen?

He headed to Beryl's room. He had taken the guest bedroom after they had agreed to start sleeping in separate rooms about eight months ago, claimed it was more comfortable. Really though, this was easier on them both to keep their own... _affairs_ in order. Tristan took pride, at first, in keeping things discreet. There never was any lipstick on his collar when he came home, or perfume on his clothes. When he did start to slip up, Beryl didn't notice or didn't show any sign that she cared.

Maybe that, plus his worry that Jason was not only two-timing his daughter but in a gang, was what put him already on edge when he saw Beryl was getting ready for another date.

"You get a callback?" He knew that was a longshot, she was dressed too slinky for business.

"Better," she smiled, putting in earrings with a smile Tristan hadn't seen for a while.

When she didn't elaborate Tristan tried to press on. "Beryl, about Jason... I'm a little worried about his... mental health and wellbeing."

Beryl gave him a long and contemptuous look, went back to putting on mascara.

"... Beryl this is important, I'm worried Jason might've gotten involved with-"

"Oh pft, I thought you'd be more open-minded."

"Beryl are we talking about the same thing right now? I'm worried Jason might be involved in, well, in a gang."

"Well she is Hispanic" Beryl mused, "but the gang thing seems a stretch."

"... wait. What?"

"Oh don't be so surprised, he's made friends with a girl in his club. Name begins with an R, with like three last names, I wouldn't be able to tell you what they are."

This wasn't expected. "Does Piper know?"

"He's told her." Beryl slipped on a pair of strappy heels.

"Beryl I really think we should talk more about this."

"Agree to disagree, I made plans."

"This is Jason's mental and emotional well-being. I'd hope you could put aside your own bullshit for this and start acting like you cared about your family as much as you did your career."

"How dare you. Is this really what you think this is?"

"Of course not, my mistake, you haven't had a career in a decade. You never were really serious about acting or work at all, just getting into the papers."

"That worked out very well for you, as I remember" she snapped.

"It made me as much a part of this family, more than you try to be most of the time, so one of us-"

"You are not part of this family, you are not Jason's father, and Jason is in fine health. It's what I'm going to tell his father tonight."

That hit him in the gut like a sledgehammer. "He contacted you?"

"Just out of the blue," Beryl sniffed haughtily. Then she added with maximum venom, "hasn't Piper's mother ever tried to keep in touch with you? No..? Well I guess you just didn't leave a big enough impression on her to care about the family you might've had." She put on a light coat. "Keep that in mind before you start looking down on _my_ choices, I've been doing pretty well. Oh, and I might be late tonight so don't bother waiting up. Thanks ' _hon_.'"

...

But Beryl returns home, early.

Everything _was_ going so smoothly. Everything was magical. For a change she was back in the finest restaurant without riding on Tristan's coattails, drinking glass after glass of fine wine, with gorgeous blue eyes locked on her like she was the only woman that mattered.

She should never have thought that she really was, because the second she brought up his wife everything felt a shit. Oh he was proud of how the children turned out, he was always proud of the children, and he made sure to tell her she had aged gracefully and he was still a big fan of all of her movies. Even the recent ones.

There hasn't been a movie with her in it for the last five years, and the last one was direct to DVD and had Roman numerals in it.

And she has aged, gracefully doesn't matter, and he hasn't and never will. He didn't want her anymore, he just wanted to make sure she still wanted him. Damn him she did, just when she thought maybe she had a chance at going through the motions of being happy she throws it all the way for him.

He called her out of the blue and he disappeared into the night just as quickly. She goes home early and she doesn't go in her bedroom because she doesn't want to see herself in the full length mirror with running mascara, and she doesn't go into the guest bedroom because she can't face Tristan. She goes into her daughter's old room instead, because where a normal girl might have a vanity mirror Thalia had posters of Nirvana and Xena and...

Tristan McLean's oiled up chest.

Beryl tore down the poster of that trashy sword-and-sandal imitation-epic " _King of Sparta_ " with an indignant howl of rage before collapsing in the messy twin bed to scream her frustrations into a grungy pillowcase.

Of course if there was a conspiracy to keep her from being happy, Thalia would be in on it.

...

The next few days, Tristan doesn't go back to the Grace home. He stays with Jane, he goes to parties, he rents hotel rooms.

Whenever Thalia visits, it's usually for work, and she usually rents hotel rooms. Tristan never asked what she did, or maybe he did and never found out, but it paid well enough to keep her in upscale hotels with a new leather jacket for every occasion.

Neither one of them are strapped for cash then, but when they unexpectedly meet up, both of them still say they ought to share a room to save some money.

That's what they tell themselves, that's not what happens.

There is a rational part of him that insists he did nothing wrong, nothing illegal. Then a vindictive side (much larger than he would like) that says this is justice, perfect revenge. And a buried, lustful creature in the pit of his stomach demands he take more and more until he forgets everything else.

He does, repeatedly, and they're both satisfied several times each.

Then it's over, really over, this time with a chill in the room that gets both of them to realize how empty they feel.

Tristan tries to listen in the silence but his conscience isn't speaking to him. He feels trapped and sick.

Always the brave girl, now Thalia is the first to get ready to flee, sliding out of bed and pulling on boyshorts and jeans in one impatient tug. When she slides on her shirt, he tries to say something.

"We shouldn't hav-"

"I know... believe me, I know."

One name she mentioned in passing comes to mind, and he can't stop himself from asking "Who was Luke?"

She pauses in the middle of tying up the laces of her left boot. "A boy I thought I loved."

"I'm sorry."

"Why?"

"Because... you got disappointed."

"He liked blondes better."

"Oh."

"And then he died," her voice cracked in the middle of pulling on her right boot. "Killed himself."

"I'm..." There's no fixing this, or coming back from this. He's been with college girls and starlets Thalia's age. He's had romances that felt real and flings without expectations. Never with a woman that he remembered as a girl who wore hotdog slippers around the house until they fell apart.

"It's fine. Guess I never really knew him."

"Maybe."

"Guess I never knew you either. Didn't think of you like this." _Didn't think you were like this_ goes unspoken but he can hear it crystal clear in the silence.

"... I didn't think of you at all."

If his words hurt, she doesn't let it show. "Did you love Piper's mother at least?"

"I might've... could have if she gave me the chance."

"What was her name?"

He laughed, and it's as bitter as he feels. "I can't even remember." He hadn't admitted that to anyone before.

Then Thalia asks the question he never could answer. "How messed up _are_ you?"


	6. Wreck and Reconciliation

Of _course_ Beryl finds out. Thankfully the press don't, and that's a miracle by itself. It would've killed her if the tabloids got hold.

The car wreck nearly killed them both, and in the state she was in Beryl almost would've preferred it.

 _She had low points in her life, who hadn't? Everyone has lowest points, but it can't be measured by some emotional trench, like dropping an anchor down some depth and measure out depression and hostility and absolute loathing... she was at the bottom of her trench thanks to Tristan McLean, that's what she convinced herself of, and it was pretty damn easy to do so._

 _After everything she did for him, and everything she thought they had agreed on, everything they were supposed to share... he'd still be a B-movie oddity multicultural curiosity fodder for the real stars to prop up._

 _Of course she told him all this after a few drinks. He reminded her, with a few drinks of his own to help loosen his tongue, that maybe she helped him once but now his filmography certainly didn't have nearly as many C-list sequels in it as hers._

 _She wasn't going to forgive his most taboo betrayal of trust, and called him a pervert, a deviant, scum of the earth and degenerate who belonged on the reservation or in jail. He fired back that she was a tramp who never wanted anything serious from him except to pose for some pictures to fool people that she might possibly be relevant again. Besides which, Thalia was an adult who made her choice and her choice just happened to be better than any of Beryls, and if Beryl was going to act so jealous now maybe she should've tried to be interesting and fulfilling enough to make him stay when he did think they had a chance at a real relationship. Maybe she should've stayed interesting enough to keep Thalia and Jason's father around and none of this would've happened anyway._

 _She brought up Piper's own mystery mother and how she certainly had better things and people to do than Tristan. He broke a glass at that comment, and things escalated from there._

 _She threw an award at his head; wasn't sure what what it was but who really cared if it wasn't an Oscar anyway? He ducked and shouted at her back, her screaming in his face until he flipped over a table, raving as badly as she was._

 _She had a few more drinks after that, and he egged her on, sarcastically wondering how her liver could take it, if she could see herself in the mirror with a constant case of rose-wine colored glasses._

 _She took the car._

 _He climbed in after her, trying to talk some sense into her but it turned into more yelling between them._

 _It was no surprise what happened next. Maybe they both knew it too and were expecting it to happen. Maybe even they were wishing that it did._

She didn't make sense of the darkness, of the white noise after the world turned into thunder and screaming, and she doesn't want to go back to the pain. But she doesn't know anything else and she's so afraid.

Then she was rescued, like in a fairy-tale, by a shining knight. It was like she imagined, though far less glamorous than she had wished. She always wanted _him_ to swoop in and rescue her.

Except the eyes weren't blue, and she knew it had to be Tristan. Funny, she thought she would rather die than be in his arms again. That seemed stupid now.

"Somebody up there must really like you."

Beryl spun around. "What?"

There was a slim man in a uniform, not military but like for a bike messenger service, something decidedly unglamorous that he wore with distinction. "I said 'someone up there must really like you', though honestly I can't tell why."

What happened to the car accident? She thought for sure she was being pulled out, she thought she saw Tristan...

Sharp whistle. "That way," the messenger pointed with a pair of snakes(?) on a stick, remarking "in case you have questions-"

Beryl looked, and her car in shambles, practically flipped on its side. Further away, following a trail of crushed glass and red smears, she saw Tristan kneeling over a woman. His hands pumping furiously on her ribs in a frantic tempo. It must've been agony for him, his hands were splintered lumps of fractures and shredded skin.

Her face was obscured by blonde hair caked in enough blood to turn it a rust color, and her clothes in worse shape from where they were torn when Tristan dragged her from the crash.

When Tristan dragged _her_ from the crash.

No... Oh _no_...

"'fraid so," the messenger sympathetically clicked his tongue. "Don't worry though... not your curtain call just yet."

Beryl's world turned black and red in a sudden burst of fear and pain.

...

The first person he ends up calling is Piper, he had to ask one of the nurses to help him dial the numbers. With the medication and the gauze, his fingers don't seem real. Feels more like stiff, wet gloves. Tristan didn't even want to know how they would feel when the pain meds ran out.

Piper is in a panic, tearful and hugging him tightly, but she rallies. Damn if his girl wasn't strong enough for them both when he felt like falling to pieces.

She tells him that she's called Jason, and he'll be on his way. She tried but she could not reach Thalia, but Tristan tells her he knows what hotel to call.

Piper knows. That's all it takes for her to figure out what has happened. She had a nose for gossip, romance, and scandal that was completely at odds with her disdain for Hollywood bullshit. Her expression goes tight lipped for a moment, but she doesn't judge him yet. He knows it'll come later, but for now Tristan is glad to wait.

"You saved her life," Piper says at last, judiciously. "That has to count for something."

"Yes I... I suppose so."

"Of course it does." She hugs him, more carefully this time.

He never wants to let her go. Tristan knows all the things that he wants to say to her, that he wants her to be happy, and that she deserve someone who loves her just as much as she loves them, that the perfect life she's imagining will always be more complicated...

He manages to tell her that he loves her, and that will be enough for now.

She leaves to call Jason again, to contact Thalia, and he goes to Beryl's room.

There's a lone nurse there in pink scrubs, he's not sure what she's doing. Looks important though. "Sir, she needs her rest, and only family should be back here."

"Right now I'm all that she has," he insists. "I've called her family, our kids I mean. They're on their ways, they should be? They should be but right now it's just me." He feels like he's flubbing his lines at an audition, only so much worse.

The nurse nods patiently. "She seems like a lucky woman."

"It's more complicated than that."

Now the nurse smiles, but eyes are looking sad... and change colors. "I know. Press the button if you need anything."

It takes her walking away for Tristan to recognize her voice, or at least to think he does. He just remembers she was probably the most beautiful woman he had seen since...

He sits down next to Beryl and holds her hand. It seems so much more papery and frail, but he feels a pulse where his fingertips touch her wrist. It's enough to get him to hope and he needs it, especially when his insides feel like they're being tied into knots.

Not certain who or what he's praying to, he bows his head and whispers over and over "please _please_... _please_..."

...

When Beryl wakes up her head is pounding, it hurts when she breathes, there's a drip-drip from an IV, the TV is playing old movies, and Tristan doesn't notice. She lets him think she's still asleep a little longer, watching him watch the TV.

It's the iconic final scene of ' _Sunset Boulevard'_ , with the delusional silent film star all misguided glamour descending from the staircase, soaking in the attention of the news cameras with desperate, heartbreaking pleasure.

Of course she notices the similarities, and judging by the queasy look on his face Tristan does too.

The poor man deserved a fairy-tale romance. Then again, so did she at one point, she's sure of it. How'd they end up with this? With each other?

She clears her throat and he changes the channel in a hurry, a rerun of ' _The Brady Bunch_ ' starts playing instead.

Considering the history of the cast in that show it didn't really improve the mood; maybe it was even more apt for their lives.

"I'll... I'll get someone, a nurse-"

"No. Not yet." Her voice is so hoarse, which makes sense given her throat feels like sandpaper. Worse than any hair-of-the-dog she's ever had, or ever will have again. After what nearly happened... "It still could be so much worse," she says aloud, surprising him.

He laughs weakly, clumsily brushing back hair with bandaged, ruinous clubs for hands. "I guess so."

"I think... I think you should move out."

"I was thinking the same… I'll look for places."

"A new castle for the king of Sparta?"

"Something like that."

"…You'll manage to visit?"

"I... I'll try. If you'd like."

She thinks on it. "Yes. I wouldn't mind."

"Then I wouldn't mind either."

"If you have the time," she amends.

He nods back, assures "I'll make time."

That would be a trick even the king of gods never managed for Beryl. Maybe Tristan would though.

"I love you," she admits, even though she's not sure what sort of love she has for him after all this. The man she built up, dragged down to her level, who pulled her out of a wreck? Almost a decade and she didn't even know what to make of him, or her feelings for him.

He just smiled his best young Harrison Ford. "I know."

She snorts, closing her eyes and feeling how tired, sore, and thirsty she was all in one wave of exhaustion. "You're being a real method actor right now," she warns.

"You too."

"Hm?"

"... I love you too," Tristan admits, softly.

And Beryl can tell he's just as unsure about it as she is, and that only makes sense given everything that happened between them. It's how she knows it's real too.

 _(Real? They were both people who dreamed of fairy-tale romances and happily ever afters without thinking of the work and consequences. They both loved without equal, passionate and frighteningly complete in near obsession. They wouldn't be a healthy love, they had had their chances with that and chose greatness over tranquility. They had children that would outstrip them in beauty and in (pun unintended, truly) grace, they had stars that dimmed and fortunes that waned. What was real was pain and acceptance of the steady decline and the boatman's fee. What was real was that they weren't a romance built on truthful feelings but grew into something like it. They only know it's real because it hurts but maybe it's worth it for the moments where maybe they can heal.)_

Good. They've both done enough pretending.


End file.
